The Santa Fe Depot's Moorish architecture of displacement— …
W. S. Di Piero
a thing that's called radar love, …
Use me …
They’re gathering now …
Trying to find my roost …
He put the spirit essence …
Hobos wail a garbage can against …
From where I stood at the field’s immaculate edge, …
The poetry’s arrested in his scene, …
The silence of night hours …
The mallet strikes but something's off, …
My aunts mentioned her just once, …
She visits still too much, dressed in aromas …
Where are you now, …
There’s no description in the braided stone, …
going on everywhere …
The View …
Miguel might, if he speaks English, call the colors …
Into my backyard’s six fat squares of concrete rigged with clothesline, …
That marsh hawk, …
It seems to head from its last stop too fast, …
Snarls, bread trucks, yeast …
The city budget squads have trimmed its hours. …
A grainy predawn dark, early Expressway traffic …
rumdumb from last night’s shrubbery tryst …
The mossy transom light, odors of cabbage …
Its small celestial reach stops …
A high school mash note’s stammering lust. …
You’re still there in the spectral impress, …
In Safeway yesterday, a young man sat on the floor, …
Eighteen-sixty eighteen sixty-four, …
The whole world was there, plucking their linen, …
Places we leave …
How often now, raging weeping for the days …